Author's note: The meat piston action doesn't start until chapter II, so you might want to skip ahead if you don't care how these things happen.
I was enjoying my morning cup of Cafe Ruby when the lunch rush hit. This close to downtown, we got a lot of yuppies slumming for their Lattes, Biscotti, and trendy pressed sandwiches. Never a Starbucks(c) around when you need one, they'd have to go all the way up to the State strip to get their daily dose of Seattle's worst. The fascists always looked at me funny when I ordered a cup of dark roast to steep my Earl Gray in. Here, they where used to me.
I window shopped the crowd of young urban professionals, but not very seriously. Not being the guys' type, I mostly looked to the Ladies. One of them looked pretty sturdy under that taupe suit. It was just tight enough to tell me what I needed to know without giving too much away. I like surprises, especially in plain wrappers.
Speaking of which, she took out a magazine with her cup of whatever. Most of them stayed only long enough to get it to go. I caught the title, "Stroke" before she spread it across her lap. Curious, I had to go check it out. I don't know the odds of there being two publications with the same name, but the Stroke I knew was pornographic. On the other hand, that was a rather cute half naked man on the cover.
She was so engrossed in a pictorial about "military relations" that she didn't notice me coming up. Must've been fairly early on because they only had their fatigues half off, and hadn't reached for the lube yet. "New issue?"
"Just got it," she didn't bother to look up, but turned the page. Sure enough, they'd gotten sick of philatio, and moved on to sodomy.
"White Rabbit?" I guessed. You could get it at Our Place, but that was XXX only. The former also offers freedom rings, and rainbow flags with only a small back room for the porn.
She silently lifted the bag to show me the logo, but tore her eyes away to take the scenic route up my body. I've heard lots of words to describe my mode of dress, but subtle had yet to come up. I'll answer to Rivethead because it sounds cool, but I don't actually have a name for it. Some people look for each other in personals, I like to advertise by wearing various flags. Her whipping out a gay male jerk rag in a predominantly gay cafe was a cry for help on the order of a signal flare.
"Mr.?" she offered her hand to prompt my name, and got an honorable mention for grip strength.
"Ruby," blood flowed back into the back of my hand where her thumb used to be. "Like the stone." I got so sick of people forgetting my name. She stowed the dirty book, but didn't offer an introduction. I seated myself next to her without invitation to balance the karma.
"Confused?" she smiled to show that it was an inside joke she got.
"I hate it when straights call me that," I admitted, but without ire, "I'm pretty secure in my sexuality, they're the ones that get confused."
She chuckled, "The one that gets me is the double standard," she mocked, "Two girls is sexy, but two guys? Ewwe!" She grimaced fetchingly.
"Curious," I threw out another buzzword.
She nodded, "About male bi-sexuality," she quantified, "Unfortunately, you guys are a rare and elusive find around here."
I knew, "Probably due to our natural predator, the North American Redneck." Though the capital, our 'city' wasn't even close to the largest in this southern state. "Why're you looking?"
"I want one for my boy," she didn't say friend. I don't really care for kids, they don't know how to do anything.
"Is he gay?" I wondered.
"Straight," she shook her head again, "We both are, but you can't have a Troi' without being open minded."
"You always this direct," I chuckled, "Or just in a hurry to get back from lunch?"
"Shit!" she checked her watch, and hastily downed her cup. "Call me if you're interested," she tossed a business card onto my lap, and swept out. {Donna Martin} I thought that was an ironic coincidence {Physical therapist}
She had a work, home, and mobile number. I wondered idylly which I would call.